


Talisman

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Cardcaptor Sakura
Genre: Angst, Inline with canon, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-20 19:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13724535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Yukito feels feather-light, as if all the food he has been eating is doing nothing at all to tether him to this world; as if he might disintegrate at a too-rough touch, at an accidental jostle." Touya begins his new year with worry and a promise.





	Talisman

Yukito doesn’t weigh enough.

Touya’s trying to not think about it. It’s hardly the most important thing on his mind at this exact moment; right now he’s trying to carry his best friend through the narrow doorways of the other’s vast, empty house to get him at least into a bed before he collapses to the same exhaustion that has been slowly, steadily sapping his very personality from him day by day. Touya has to think about turning sideways through entryways, and keeping an eye out for sharp edges of furniture, and ducking under the top edge of doorways to make sure Yukito half-over his shoulder doesn’t hit his head on the corners; and he’s listening to the mumble of Yukito’s voice just against his ear, the barely-audible apologies and insistence that he’s fine, that he’s just tired, that he can find his way to bed even as his attempts to take his own weight collapse as soon as his feet touch the floor, even as his hand clutches and falls from Touya’s shirtfront as quickly as he makes the attempt. Touya has more than enough to keep him occupied just in the moment, he can save any other concerns for later, when he’s alone, when he doesn’t have an audience for them; but he can’t ignore the reality of it, and every step forward he takes thuds against the inside of his chest like the sound of a heavy bell tolling a funeral rite.

Yukito is too light. It’s not that he hasn’t been eating; Yukito has always had a surprising appetite but lately it’s reached levels of absurdity, dozens of sandwiches and full loaves of bread at single sittings, dessert with two full cakes between them that end with Touya finishing a single slice and both serving platters clean of all but crumbs. But Yukito feels feather-light, as if all the food he has been eating is doing nothing at all to tether him to this world; as if he might disintegrate at a too-rough touch, at an accidental jostle. It’s that as much as anything else that keeps Touya moving with such superstitious care, as if running Yukito up against a doorframe might knock the fragility of his existence out of alignment and leave Touya cradling nothing in his arms but clothes filled with fading memories. The thought twists in his stomach, tightens a fist of pain around his heart, and when he passes through the next doorway it’s with even greater care, with so much attention to detail that Touya doesn’t think Yukito so much as brushes against the edges of the frame around them.

Yukito didn’t bother rolling up his futon. Touya’s grateful to that minor assistance, even if the implications of the rumpled sheets tell too clear a story of the other’s struggle to even make it across the distance of his house to the front door. Touya doesn’t want to turn away, doesn’t want to leave Yukito alone for even the amount of time it would take to unroll the soft of the mattress and spread sheets across it; luckily, as it is all he has to do is fold to his knees alongside the futon and brace his arms around Yukito half-over his shoulder so he can lower the other down to the blankets before him. Yukito makes some soft sound too faint for Touya to parse as protest or gratitude either one; when he lifts his hand his fingers catch against Touya’s jacket for a moment, as if he’s trying to hold himself up before even the vanishing weight of his arm proves too much and pulls his hand to the blankets beneath him. Touya can feel his eyes burn, can feel his throat close up; it takes conscious effort to keep himself moving with careful intent, to persuade his body to lower Yukito as gently as he can to the futon rather than clutching the other close against his chest. Yukito feels like he’ll shatter to a rough touch, like he might give way entirely to the pressure of a too-strong hold; but still Touya wants to cling to him, wants to grip as tightly to what of the other he can lay hands to as if to hold him to this reality bodily. It’s surprising to see the blankets shift under Yukito’s weight; Touya feels as if perhaps the weight of the sheets themselves might be enough to resist the so-light burden of Yukito against them, as if the creases might bruise or break the other’s skin rather than give way to the force of his existence.

Yukito stirs as Touya settles him atop the blankets, his lashes shifting like he’s trying to struggle himself back to consciousness. “Sorry,” he mumbles, his voice so draggingly soft that Touya can hardly hear him at all, even with his whole attention focused in with painful intensity on Yukito before him. He can see Yukito’s throat work as the other swallows, can see his lashes raise to bring his sleep-hazed eyes into golden focus on Touya for just a moment. “I’ll be fine, really.”

Touya looks at Yukito for a moment: at the tangled soft of his hair, the haze of his eyes, the curve of his struggling smile. Yukito looks soft, sweet, the way he always has, as if there’s nothing wrong with him at all; but Touya can see the curve of the other’s cheeks as if they are hiding hollows of starvation under the pale skin, can pick out the suggestion of insomnia bruised into the soft space behind the cover of Yukito’s glasses. Even the effort of his smile is too clear to pass as sincerity; even without the other’s frightening exhaustion, Touya thinks he would know something was wrong, something too deep to show at the surface but that is eating away at Yukito all the same to hollow him out, to leave him stripped of substance before the shell of existence dissolves too.

“Of course you will,” Touya says, and he looks away as he leaves Yukito to the support of the blankets under him and reaches for the buttons of the other’s vest instead to ease the fabric from its fastenings. “You’ll get some rest and you’ll be okay.” He tugs open the vest and reaches for Yukito’s shoulder to urge the other up so he can slide the fabric down and off the other’s arm. “Just stay in bed for now.”

“It’s the new year,” Yukito protests, but there’s no resistance to the slack weight of his wrist as Touya pulls the vest off him. Touya hopes that’s from resignation rather than inability. “I can’t go back to bed as soon as I got up. I need to wish everyone a good start to the new year.”

“You did,” Touya tells him. “You told me. I’ll tell everyone else for you.” He tips Yukito back down to the futon so he can pull at the other side of the other’s vest; Yukito lifts his other hand to his face to rub against his eyes under the lopsided angle of his glasses. “All you have to worry about is getting some rest.”

“I’ve had so much already,” Yukito says, sounding more exhausted by this idea than comforted by it. “I don’t know why I’m so tired all the time.” Touya pulls the other’s vest free and folds it in on itself so he can set it aside; Yukito lets his hand fall from his face to weight across his stomach instead as he blinks up at Touya. When he smiles it’s warm with sincerity in spite of the heavy-lidded exhaustion behind his eyes. “I’m sorry for worrying you.”

Touya looks at Yukito for a long moment. The shadows are still there under his eyes, the hollows are still clear in his cheeks; but his gaze is open, his expression still the same innocent clarity it always has been. Touya’s throat closes up, his heart catches in his chest; for a moment he can’t find words at all, can’t do anything but shake his head in silent rejection of this apology while he struggles himself back into speech.

“Don’t apologize,” he says finally, the words made rough by the emotion in his throat. He reaches out to touch against Yukito’s hair, to feather his fingertips against the soft edges of it; Yukito’s lashes flutter, his smile slips wider, his head tilts in. For a heartbeat Touya lingers there, his fingers stroking over the warmth of Yukito’s skin, his touch wandering against the fall of the other’s silver hair; and then he closes his hold against the metal frame of Yukito’s glasses to draw them gently up and away. Yukito blinks at the loss, his unfocused gaze fluttering as he tries to track the movement, but Touya just pulls them free to fold carefully and set aside, in easy reach for whenever Yukito wakes again. Yukito’s head turns to track the movement, his idle attention settling on his glasses instead of on Touya’s face, and Touya lifts his hand again to stroke against Yukito’s hair and smooth it just over the curve of his ear. “I’m not worried.” Yukito’s lips shift, his mouth curving up at the corner towards the beginnings of a smile again; but he’s too tired to muster it, or too content. His lashes draw his eyes shut instead, his expression eases into the slack comfort of sleep; Touya can see the tension sag out of Yukito’s shoulders as the other slides into unconsciousness as easily as that. He draws his hand through the other’s hair once more, slowly, like he’s urging Yukito down farther into rest, and then he presses his lips together, and he lets himself see.

Touya tries not to look at the world like this, mostly. It’s easier to live his life without dodging ghosts he doesn’t realize are insubstantial, simpler to offer a smile to a stranger when he doesn’t see the crackle of latent power around them; easier to look at Yukito next to him when he’s not squinting into the blaze of repressed energy the other carries within him. It’s been easier, recently, to not look for other reasons; but Touya can’t help it this time, not when the urge is so strong within him. So he gazes at Yukito, and he lets his control go slack, and he sees: not the sunbright brilliance that used to be there, not even the hum of potential that he sees sometimes in Kaho, or Sakura, or even Sakura’s irritating friend Li. It’s hard to see Yukito at all, like this: as if the color is seeping out of him, as if he’s fading out of the spiritual realm as surely as he’s disintegrating in the physical one. The light that used to shine so brightly is a candleflame, now, and a weak one; Touya can see it fluttering even as he looks, gusting higher for a moment before ebbing back the further. He can’t see it lessening in this exact moment -- even now Yukito isn’t that far gone -- but he can see the struggle, can see the effort as if it’s fighting against some unseen wind trying to blow it away into a curl of extinguished smoke.

Touya tips in closer, leaning in over Yukito before him as his eyes blur, as his shoulders hunch. His fingers against the other’s hair tighten, his palm tensing as if to capture that guttering flame in its shadow, as if to offer the protection of his body as a barrier to the wind trying so hard to sweep Yukito’s existence out and away. Touya’s head ducks in, his nose bumps Yukito’s hair; his breath spills over the dark-lashed calm of the other’s shut eyes.

“I won’t let you disappear,” Touya says, murmuring the words to such softness they would go unheard even if Yukito were awake to catch them. “I promise, Yuki.” And he presses closer, just for a moment, offering the warm weight of his lips like punctuation against the delicate skin before him. Touya’s breath catches, he shuts his eyes to hold back the burn of tears; but Yukito doesn’t stir, doesn’t so much as shift before him. Touya lingers there for a moment, longer than he should, longer than is wise; and then he draws up and away, slow to hold the heat of Yukito’s skin against his lips as long as he can. Yukito shifts at the retreat, but it’s only to turn down closer to the blankets beneath him, only to sigh some soft incoherence of comfort against the sheets under him. Touya straightens to upright again, still kneeling alongside Yukito’s futon, and fixes his gaze on the weight of his fingers in the other’s hair while he waits for his breathing to return to even.

It’s some time before he’s breathing as easily as Yukito is, and longer still before he can find it in him to get up and leave the other to his rest, but Touya doesn’t mind. Every minute that passes feels like a promise, like extra weight to that vow he offered; and whatever it takes, he’s going to make sure he still has Yukito at his side by this time next year too.


End file.
